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Authors: Louis Bayard
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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title. When asked which he wd prefer, Prisoner said he wd answer only to “Wolf Cub.” When it was pointed out that Prisoner was not animal but boy, Prisoner was seen to smile, for first time. Appeared to pity me greatly.
He asked then how old he was? Nine, I said. Yes, that’s right, he said.
Will make it a point, in future entries, to refer to Prisoner as Charles.
CHAPTER 9
A Journey to Luxembourg
F OUR DAYS HAVE passed since last I saw Vidocq, but still I feel him. Every time I take my walk around the block or stroll over to the Rue d’École de Médecine or sneak a newspaper out of Le Père Bonvin, it’s his voice, insinuating in my ear….
I could set my watch by you .
And then on Friday morning, something knocks me out of my accustomed orbit. A letter. On lilac stationery with flaking gilt edges and a coat of arms indifferently embossed at the top—paper so brittle I don’t trust myself to hold it.
Dr. Carpentier—
Recent events surrounding the late M. Leblanc compel me to write. I wonder if I might entreat you to call upon me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You may find me in my apartment at No. 17, Rue Férou.
Failing any further communication from you, I shall await the pleasure of your company. Your discretion is earnestly requested.
Baronne de Préval
The name seems as brittle as the paper. A baroness!
My first thought is that Nankeen and the other boarders are having me on. My second thought—and it’s the thought I’ve been having from the moment Vidocq came into my life— You’ve got the wrong man .
More than that, the wrong class. The closest I’ve ever come to aristocrats is Sunday afternoons on the Champs-Élysées. Now that the Bourbons are back, it’s the best kind of sport, sauntering through the elms while the coupés sweep past. Horses with rosettes in their ears, drivers in wigs and cravats, and through the windows, snatches of powdered skin, a Chinese ivory handle, an uncinching mouth-bud. The notion that one of these women might stop the carriage and usher me in with her superbly enervated arm seems as likely as the King asking me to cure his gout.
In short, there are reasons to doubt this promotion. Look first at the man who brought me the message. Not the usual liveried footman but a common porter, older than Mont Blanc, snarling at the few sous of gratuity I drop in his palm.
Next, look at the address. The Rue Férou, a quiet little spoke off the wheel of the Luxembourg Gardens, far removed from the thrum of court life. What business does a baroness have living there?
All afternoon, all evening, I limn the many reasons for declining the invitation. By the next morning, I’ve accepted. I even know why. It’s the last thing Vidocq would expect of me.
P ARIS IS FOGBOUND this morning. The smokes of last night’s fires, woven with sewer fumes and the evaporations of three weeks’ rain, lie in sepia drifts on the mansards, in the gutters, along the trees and wagons and vendor booths. Thickly scalloped and all the same moving— renewing —as if the city itself had been caught in the very act of breathing.
The only discernible parts of no. 17, Rue Férou, are a façade of rough yellow-daubed stone…three small windows with blinds drowsily lowered…and a wrought-iron knocker carved in the shape of a winking satyr. The knocker won’t move, so I have to pound on the door, which is answered by an old concierge, dressed in black merino and grinning like a procuress.
“Dr. Carpentier, yes! She’s expecting you.”
Taking a candle, she leads me up two flights of stairs—an act for which her body is deeply unqualified. She has to haul it forward, dragging each leg like a valise.
“You were able to find the way? Oof. Mornings like these, I can barely see my own nose. Grrm. The Baroness will be so glad to see you. I’m always telling her, you know, invite some young people for a change. Fwoof. Much better than those old goats in
He asked then how old he was? Nine, I said. Yes, that’s right, he said.
Will make it a point, in future entries, to refer to Prisoner as Charles.
CHAPTER 9
A Journey to Luxembourg
F OUR DAYS HAVE passed since last I saw Vidocq, but still I feel him. Every time I take my walk around the block or stroll over to the Rue d’École de Médecine or sneak a newspaper out of Le Père Bonvin, it’s his voice, insinuating in my ear….
I could set my watch by you .
And then on Friday morning, something knocks me out of my accustomed orbit. A letter. On lilac stationery with flaking gilt edges and a coat of arms indifferently embossed at the top—paper so brittle I don’t trust myself to hold it.
Dr. Carpentier—
Recent events surrounding the late M. Leblanc compel me to write. I wonder if I might entreat you to call upon me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You may find me in my apartment at No. 17, Rue Férou.
Failing any further communication from you, I shall await the pleasure of your company. Your discretion is earnestly requested.
Baronne de Préval
The name seems as brittle as the paper. A baroness!
My first thought is that Nankeen and the other boarders are having me on. My second thought—and it’s the thought I’ve been having from the moment Vidocq came into my life— You’ve got the wrong man .
More than that, the wrong class. The closest I’ve ever come to aristocrats is Sunday afternoons on the Champs-Élysées. Now that the Bourbons are back, it’s the best kind of sport, sauntering through the elms while the coupés sweep past. Horses with rosettes in their ears, drivers in wigs and cravats, and through the windows, snatches of powdered skin, a Chinese ivory handle, an uncinching mouth-bud. The notion that one of these women might stop the carriage and usher me in with her superbly enervated arm seems as likely as the King asking me to cure his gout.
In short, there are reasons to doubt this promotion. Look first at the man who brought me the message. Not the usual liveried footman but a common porter, older than Mont Blanc, snarling at the few sous of gratuity I drop in his palm.
Next, look at the address. The Rue Férou, a quiet little spoke off the wheel of the Luxembourg Gardens, far removed from the thrum of court life. What business does a baroness have living there?
All afternoon, all evening, I limn the many reasons for declining the invitation. By the next morning, I’ve accepted. I even know why. It’s the last thing Vidocq would expect of me.
P ARIS IS FOGBOUND this morning. The smokes of last night’s fires, woven with sewer fumes and the evaporations of three weeks’ rain, lie in sepia drifts on the mansards, in the gutters, along the trees and wagons and vendor booths. Thickly scalloped and all the same moving— renewing —as if the city itself had been caught in the very act of breathing.
The only discernible parts of no. 17, Rue Férou, are a façade of rough yellow-daubed stone…three small windows with blinds drowsily lowered…and a wrought-iron knocker carved in the shape of a winking satyr. The knocker won’t move, so I have to pound on the door, which is answered by an old concierge, dressed in black merino and grinning like a procuress.
“Dr. Carpentier, yes! She’s expecting you.”
Taking a candle, she leads me up two flights of stairs—an act for which her body is deeply unqualified. She has to haul it forward, dragging each leg like a valise.
“You were able to find the way? Oof. Mornings like these, I can barely see my own nose. Grrm. The Baroness will be so glad to see you. I’m always telling her, you know, invite some young people for a change. Fwoof. Much better than those old goats in
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